


Recall

by Xyriath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Falling In Love, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19371793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: Keith wakes up after a bike accident in the hospital, miraculously alive, missing five years of his life, and...married?He doesn't know this man claiming to be Keith's husband, but whoever this Shiro guy is, he'll get tired of Keith eventually. Like everyone always has.But as he struggles to adjust to a new life that's the polar opposite to the one he remembers, Shiro stays by his side, loyal and faithful and perfect.Tooperfect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sheith Prompt Bang! Stay tuned for more!

Shiro had thought that Keith would never wake up.

He’d visited, every day, for two months, until one afternoon he’d fainted in the hallway. All things considered, a hospital was probably the best place for that sort of thing to happen, but one IV and a very angry lecture from a doctor later, he’d received the order: limit his visits to once a week. He wouldn’t do Keith any good if he worried himself to death.

After every visit, he came home and showered, sobbing for at least an hour each time, wasting water the way he’d wasted his time with Keith.

He ignores the call when it comes. Fresh out of the shower, he doesn’t want to speak with anyone.

It’s a different story when he checks his messages. _The hospital._

He braces himself for the worst. When he hears the news, the only reason he doesn’t drive there immediately is because he’s sobbing too hard to see—and he can’t do someone else what had almost been done to him.

When he eventually manages to collect himself enough to call Iverson, he doesn’t even have to finish a sentence before Iverson is out the door. He drives Shiro, patting his arm gently on the way, and Shiro eventually dries his tears and makes himself presentable. More or less.

But for everything he's gone through in the past six months, he still finds himself terrified to step inside.

—

**One week earlier**

It’s a blur of nurses. Doctors. Needles. Confusion. Dread.

They ask him his name, and he says “Keith.” They ask for his family, his insurance, his job…

He doesn’t have any of those.

They ask him who the president is. When he answers, they exchange glances.

What the hell does that mean?

After another barrage of tests, the doctor comes in and sits down next to him. Her expression is kind, and Keith’s instincts have him prickling. Bad news. He knows it.

“Amnesia?” he croaks, voice hoarse and rusty from, they’ve told him, six months of disuse. His body isn’t in any better shape: when he’d tried to sit up, his arms had flopped around like limp noodles. “Are you shitting me? That stuff just happens in movies, doesn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, it’s very real. We’ll be doing tests to make sure that there isn’t any further brain damage.

Brain damage. Wouldn’t that be just his luck.

“How… how much time did I lose?” he asks, and immediately regrets it.

“We’re not sure yet. A few years, at least, most likely, but we’ll be testing for that, too. Do you know the last thing you remember? What year it was?”

Keith tries, he does, but the moment his memories try to get any more detailed than the hot Arizona desert, his head splits in agony.

“N-no.” He winces, holding his head. “Shit. You got any painkillers?”

The doctor makes a note in his file, and his hackles immediately rise.

“We’ll look into that. For now, we have some relatives for you. I’m sure they’d like to see you; is that okay?”

Keith scowls. Is this some sort of joke? “I told you guys, I don’t have any.” He remembers them looking after his dad died. No relatives to foist a kid on, so definitely none now.

“It’s likely that you don’t remember, but we have record of a mother and a husband. I’m sure they’ll be pretty relieved to find out you’re awake and safe. It might be good to meet them; your memory might clear up with them here to give you some visual stimulus.”

“...Oh.” Keith fiddles with the sheets, gritting his teeth and looking at the hospital wall. A mother? He can’t have a mother. Where was she for his dad’s funeral? Where was she when Keith was shunted into the system and left to rot?

And a _husband_ —

“Can I call them?”

“No!”

He finds himself startled with his vehemence, and his gaze cuts back to the doctor, who looks similarly surprised.

“No? But, Keith—”

“No,” he repeats, firm and steady this time, and he lifts his hands to cover his face. God, he can barely deal with interacting with people at the corner store; how is he supposed to deal with having a mom? A _husband_?

He takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I… I need a few days. Let me… let me get my head on straight, figure out what I remember and what I don’t, and then you can let them know I’m okay. You’ve gotta listen to me on that, right? Doctor patient confidentiality.” He remembers the term from the shitty cop shows he used to catch snippets of at the dive bars where he did business. “And then you can call him. The husband.” He presses his lips together. Why would he be in touch with someone calling herself his mother? The thought leaves him nauseous and suspicious.

The doctor sighs, making another note on her chart. “I understand. Yes, of course we’ll respect your wishes. You’ll need about a week of physical therapy and testing to make sure that you’re recovering properly; how about we call him when you’re ready to be discharged?”

“Works for me,” he replies dully. “They told me I actually had insurance, too—are you sure you’ve got the right name? There isn’t a different Keith Kogane out there?”

She smiles at him. “One hundred percent. I promise you, we checked and double checked.”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll do your physical therapy or whatever.”

“Wonderful. We’ll have you ready to get home and back to your life in no time.”

Keith starts to wonder whose life he’s stolen.

—

No one had warned him that physical therapy fucking _sucked_.

The hospital has this machine, at least, that exercises his muscles for him: cutting edge, or so he’s been told. His insurance covers it and all the other best treatments money can buy, which leaves his head spinning. But he doesn’t have much time to think about it, not with the treatment that comes after. He doesn’t know who invented this electric stimulation bullshit, but he has to imagine they’re a sadist.

He doesn’t ask for more information about his life, even when they try to talk to him. He doesn’t even let them tell him what year it is. Maybe, he thinks perversely, if he pretends none of this ever happened, he’ll wake up and it’ll all be a dream.

But does he really want to be back there, scrounging for a living, hopping from odd job to odd job in an increasingly futile attempt to make ends meet?

But the week passes. He doesn’t wake up. And the painful treatment makes it more and more obvious that he’s not going to.

He gives them permission to make the call.

—

Keith doesn’t notice at first. People come in and out of his room all the time, rarely announcing themselves. It’s annoying, really. But the huge stranger in the doorway isn’t wearing scrubs, and Keith’s street instincts are still sharp enough for him to pick out a loiterer.

He turns to look at him warily as the nurse puts away the equipment, wheeling away the tray.

Tall, handsome, and nervous. There’s some stubble on his square jaw and rumples in his clothes. One button is only half in its buttonhole. His features suggest East Asian ancestry—just like Keith—and a shock of white hair sweeps across his forehead, even though he can’t be more than thirty or so.

This can’t be— _logically_ , he knows who this is supposed to be. The wedding band on his hand glints in time with the one Keith found among his possessions. But Keith looks at him and feels…

Nothing.

But the man smiles tentatively, hopefully, and he looks a little ridiculous, someone of that size trying to hide behind a doorframe.

“Hey, Keith,” he murmurs, and Keith doesn’t know what he was expecting, but a voice like that wasn’t it—a little hoarse, yes, but gentle nonetheless. Though he speaks perfect English, the words are threaded with a noticeable accent. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Keith shrugs, the hospital gown rustling around his shoulders. His instincts tell him to look away, look down, become small. In bed like this, he can’t run if he needs to.

He hates it.

“You’re the husband,” he says.

The man’s smile falters immediately. “The… Keith, I’m… I’m _your_ husband.” Instead of stepping inside, he retreats a little further.

“Right. That’s what I meant… I guess. They told you, right?”

“Told me what?”

Keith sighs heavily and presses his palms to his eyes. He’s tired and this is hard. They could have at least done the work on this guy.

“I have some kind of amnesia. I didn’t really get all of the details; they’ve been focused on making sure I’m not gonna drop dead or something and I’ve been focused on not doing it. I’m fine. I just don’t remember stuff. People.”

“People?” the man croaks, retreating further. “You… you don’t know who I am?”

Keith looks at him through his fingers one more time. He runs his eyes up and down the chiseled physique, wondering if something will click.

If he’s honest, really, vulnerably honest, the life they’re telling him he has is exactly what he never thought he’d have. Is exactly what he’s always wanted.

“...No.” Keith doesn’t like the bluntness of it. “Sorry.”

That doesn’t really make it better.

The man hesitates for several moments, then asks quietly, “Should I go?”

Oh. Keith fucked it up already. He pulls the covers up.

“It’s a free country.”

“I know. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Keith snorts. When was the last time he had someone who cared if he was _uncomfortable_. “Look, you don’t have to stay.”

“I don’t know what you want,” the man says, and though he’s trying to hide it, tension bleeds through in his voice.

“I don’t even know who I _am_ ,” Keith says, voice thick. “It just… it feels like you’re looking for someone else.”

Another heartbeat of silence, and then the man steps forward into the room.

“Your name, it’s…” Shit; he’d seen the file, but he hadn’t bothered committing it to memory. Clearly, he’d been a shit husband.

“Shiro,” comes the quiet voice, and Keith looks up again, meeting sad gray eyes that make him, uncharacteristically, want to do better. To be better.

Fuck.

“Shiro, then.” He shrugs. “Yeah, you can stay.”

Keith can feel the tension seeping out of the room. Not gone, but less suffocating.

“I know who you are,” Shiro begins. “Even before we were… before everything. I wanted to get to know you then, and I’m okay with doing it again now.”

The words leave Keith sick. He can’t be—he’s not a _husband_. People don’t want Keith around.

“I’m only gonna disappoint you,” he says stubbornly. “I’m a shitty friend. Can’t imagine how bad of a husband I’ve gotta be.”

Something in Shiro’s face shifts, as if he were trying to conceal a flinch, and Keith feels even worse.

“I’m willing to take my chances,” Shiro says, firm and quiet.

Why the fuck he would want to do anything like that, Keith has no idea. “Okay.” He awkwardly gropes for something to say. “How… how long were we—have we been married?”

“Four years.” Shiro steps gingerly over to sit in the chair. “Five, actually, this…” His voice cracks, and he can’t finish the sentence. “You really don’t… nothing?”

“I forgot _five years_? Fuck.” Keith covers his eyes with both hands again. They’d hinted at it, but he hadn’t listened, and hearing it said now…

“It’s okay. I can help you remember.” A gentle hand touches Keith’s shoulder, and he tenses. It immediately draws back.

“Sorry.”

Keith winces. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just… not something I’m used to. I probably should be, huh.”

“I should have known better. It’s you from… a while ago. I need to respect that.”

Keith drops his hands, then turns to look up at Shiro, searching for some _inkling_ of familiarity.

Nothing.

“I guess we started somewhere, huh?”

Shiro’s expression softens. “Yeah. We did. You’ve… come really far.”

Keith worries on his lip, thinking back to some of the things the nurses had mentioned when he was half paying attention.

“We have a house?” He tries to sound nonchalant.

Shiro nods eagerly, like he’s trying to convince Keith that this new life is worth staying for. “A huge one. And a pool, and dogs.”

For the first time, hope blooms in Keith’s chest. “They never let me have a dog.”

Shiro smiles warmly at him. “Paladin, Atlas, and Kosmo. They miss you.”

“Three?!” Keith leans back on the bed, trying to work his stunned mind around that fact. _Three dogs_. How did they afford that? How did they have time for that?

Slowly, however, reality creeps in.

“What about the shack?”

Shiro’s smile falters a little. “Shack? No, it’s huge.”

It’s all Keith has in the world. His dad’s weird shack and a bike and the desert. And, apparently, not even those.

“Do I at least have my bike?”

Keith is expecting Shiro to do anything but laugh.

“Keith, you’re a bike _racer_. You have a good dozen. You’re skilled and rich and one of the most famous racers in the world.”

Keith’s mouth goes dry. It has to be a joke. It has to be an elaborate, horrible setup for some kind of barely-legal reality show. Keith won’t—he _can’t_ —believe any of it until he sees it for himself.

“Oh.” His head thunks back against the hospital bed. “Oh. Um.” And then it occurs to him: if anyone would have some fucking answers, it would be his husband. “The doctor said… I had a mom?”

Shiro stares at Keith like he’s just grown a second head. “What? No, not as far as I know. Just foster families that never worked out.”

Keith crashes hard. Even telling himself that none of this is his, that it’s too good to be real, that they had to be _wrong_ , he’d still gotten attached. Fuck all of this. He needs some kind of defense; this isn’t _fair_.

“I guess she got it wrong.” He pauses, shoving the disappointment, the hurt, back down where it belongs. “You’re sure I’m the guy you’re married to?” He hasn’t seen a mirror, but he imagines what sort of injuries might have happened to someone after the kind of accident he’d been in. Maybe it’s just impossible to tell. “Am I super disfigured or something? Maybe you mixed us up.”

Across from him, Shiro frowns. “What? No, of course not. You’re the most attractive person I know.”

He doesn’t miss the slight pink across Shiro’s cheeks as he says so, and he files away that knowledge for later. But then the words catch up to him, and he burns red.

He doesn’t know how to address the compliment from a guy objectively hotter than the sun, so he ignores it. “No, I mean… are you actually sure it’s _me_. That this isn’t some case of mistaken identity because I have the same name.”

“Of course.” Shiro says it with unshakeable faith; Keith wishes he could have that kind of conviction. “Keith Kogane. Your father’s name was Heath. You got your first bike for thirteen dollars at a garage sale right after you were kicked out from your last foster home, and you begged, bartered, and stole the parts to fix her up yourself. She’s in our garage.”

Keith swallows. Correct. Not only that, but nothing he’s ever bothered telling anyone else before.

“That feels like… like less than a year ago. Literally.”

Numbly, Keith realizes that if he were dead and in some weird heaven type dream coma or whatever, then his dad wouldn’t be dead. So he has to be alive. And awake.

He looks up at Shiro, the realization suddenly dawning on him.

“What’s your full name?” At Shiro’s confused expression, he hurries to clarify. “Like, are you Shiro Kogane now, or whatever?”

“What—oh, yeah. Takashi Shirogane Kogane. It’s… I used to go by…” He waves his hand a little awkwardly. “Japanese naming customs are different than in the states. Shirogane is my middle name, now. Which makes more sense to you all but less sense to me,” he finishes with an awkward laugh.

Keit’s stomach sinks a little at the realization that there’s probably a fuckton of cultural context that he’s missing and needs to relearn. God, he hopes he doesn’t offend Shiro. He thinks a little on the name.

“Well, I’m glad. That sounds good.”

Shiro smiles crookedly. “Went from silver to gold.” At Keith’s confused look, Shiro explains, a little awkwardly, “Shirogane—well, technically it means platinum, but it’s a silver color, and—”

Keith can’t help the snort, but he finds himself smiling. “And let me guess; Kogane means gold? That’s corny as fuck.”

Shiro colors pink again. “I thought it was poetic.”

Keith’s expression softens; that damn blush looks so out of place on him, which makes it all the more charming. “It is, honest. It is.”

To Keith’s eternal delight, the pink color deepens even more. Had Shiro never told Keith this, even before they were married? “Oh. Well, thanks.”

He tries to keep the conversation going. Shiro seems like a really nice guy. He doesn’t deserve this. “Really, it’s nice. Really nice. I really—” Fuck, how often could his stupid mouth say that word? “I always wanted a big family.”

Shiro hesitates, his eyes flicking over to Keith. “We don’t have any kids.”

Keith chokes. “That’s—it’s okay. I didn’t mean that. You’re my family. Right?”

“Oh, I just—I thought you would want to know.”

“I’m glad. I’d hate to be a shit parent _and_ a shit husband.”

“You’re not!” Shiro insists, leaning forward, and Keith blinks at the intensity of the expression. “No, you’re not at _all_.”

“I am right now.” Keith takes a deep breath. “Look, I want to... try to fix that. I have no idea how I got here, but even if I don’t remember yet, I don’t want to just drop whatever life I managed to build.”

Shiro hesitates again, and Keith has to wonder what’s going on behind those gray eyes.

“Okay. We can... work on it. Did they tell you you have a chance of remembering?”

“Yeah. They think that being surrounded by familiar stuff might like... make it come back.” Keith shrugs.

“Then we should get you home, huh?”

Home. He has a home. With dogs and bikes and this man.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

Shiro draws back, looking startled. “Wait, you can go home? Now? I thought I was just here to visit.”

“I wanted to meet you first. They agreed not to make any promises.” Keith pulls off the covers, then swings his feet over the bed. “But if you want me there, then... it’s where I want to be.”

“Are you sure you don’t need... time to adjust?”

“Probably. But it’s a good idea to get this going as soon as possible, right? So I can remember.”

Shiro nods, running fingers through his hair. “Right. Okay. I’ll talk to the nurse? Doctor? I’ll get someone.”

“Thanks.” Keith nods, curling his toes on the tiles.

Shiro swallows, then hands over a bag Keith hadn’t noticed before now. It’s not one that he recognizes, and he wonders if it belongs to Shiro or the other “him.”

“Here. They don’t... they might be a little big, but I thought you might want your favorite clothes. I’ll... be outside.”

“Oh. Uh, thank you.” Keith reaches for it, and it barely changes hands before Shiro is out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith doesn’t know the building, the curtains in the windows, the glint of gold statues inside.  He’s never eaten somewhere like this before.

The passenger door opens, and Shiro reaches in, but Keith stops him with a hand on one shoulder.

“We’re going inside?”

Shiro pauses.  “Yeah. Our table is free.”

Keith glances over, wondering how Shiro knows that.  They have a table? Maybe being in public will be easier than being in a weird house that he doesn’t know.  But Keith is wearing a jacket way too baggy for him and hasn’t had a real shower and doesn’t know what fork to use—

“Right.  Okay.”

“If you want me to go inside and get something to go, we can, but I thought you might like to spend some time outside after being cooped up.  And... maybe, the more familiar places, the better.”

“No, yeah.  That’s a good idea.”  Keith removes his hand.  “There isn’t, like... a dress code?”

Shiro laughs.  “What? No way.  Jeans place.”

This time, Keith lets Shiro lift him, trying to steady himself without touching Shiro too much.  Together, they get him into the chair.

As they wheel inside, the waiters look up, and their expressions shift to delight when they see Keith.  The host ushers them to a table by the window, up on a platform, with a lovely view of the indoor lake.

Shiro diplomatically defers questions— _ He’s very tired, you see; just got out of the hospital _ —and places Keith in the chair with the best view as easily as he would a doll.

Keith keeps his head down until they’re seated.  There’s nice music, a fake Buddha that’s too tall, and a bridge over a little fountain stream.  There are so many plants that it almost doesn’t feel indoors at all.

Still, he feels a little bit of gratitude that Shiro is letting him sit on his own, especially in public.

He glances up to see that Shiro has buried his nose in the tall menu, so he picks up his own.

Keith doesn’t know most of the dishes.  He scans his eyes over phad kiew warn ta lay and kao phad kai and can’t work out any of it.

“Um.  What do I usually get?”

“Sea bass, usually, or the jungle curry.  Though you’ve liked just about everything on the menu, or so you’ve told me.”

Keith drags his eyes down the menu for “jungle curry” and finds it in cursive under “kaeng pa.”  He missed the tiny English translations, but looking at them doesn’t help him much either.

“I guess I’ll try jungle curry, then.”

He glances up to see Shiro smiling crookedly.  “Always did like a challenge.”

Decision made, he sets down the menu.  The waitress hurries up, beaming at Keith, maybe the slight sparkle of tears in her eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Kogane!”  It’s so good to see you!”

For a moment, Keith thinks she’s talking to Shiro, but she doesn’t break eye contact with him.  Eventually, he realizes he’s supposed to say something. “Um, thank you. I appreciate that,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t know her.  How many times is this going to happen?  How many people does he know now? From none to too many.

Be careful what you wish for.

“Of course!  Can I get you two anything special today?”

“The usual will be okay.”  Shiro’s gentle voice takes over, to Keith’s immense relief.  “Jungle curry, seafood lemongrass, and two Thai teas.”

She jots it down, then leaves them be with a beaming smile.  Keith folds a napkin in half, then in half again.

“We really do come here a lot, huh,” he jokes.  It sounds flat.

Shiro laughs a little.  “Yeah, it’s one of your favorites.  You’re the one who showed me, actually.”

Keith wonders how he found it, and how well he tips to make a waitress that happy to see him.

“That so?”

That’s his dad coming out in him.  He drops the napkin.

“Yeah.”  He smiles fondly over at Keith.  “It starting to ring a bell?”

“Not really,” Keith admits.  “But, whatever. I’m sure it’s fine.  It was a good try?” He doesn’t want to make Shiro sad again; for some reason, he already feels responsible, like he needs to be nice to the person he’s supposed to love.

Plus, he already hates Shiro’s puppy eyes when he’s upset.  Too powerful.

“Well, I hope you like trying the curry the first time again,” Shiro teases.

“Yeah, I guess that’s fun?”

God, he hopes he actually likes it.

“What did they tell you?”

Keith blinks, tilting his head in confusion, and Shiro smiles crookedly.  “At the hospital, I mean.”

“Oh.”  Keith rubs at his forehead.  “Nothing much beyond the diagnosis.  My name. Who would visit. My insurance stuff.”

Shiro exhales, eyes fixed on the road, thankfully.  “Right. So I guess... we wait for you to remember.”

“I guess.  They think it won’t be permanent.  Maybe a few days.” As Keith watches him, he notices something in Shiro’s eyes, something semi-hidden and cautious and worried.

But Shiro only exhales.  “Oh. Well, that’s fine, then.”

Conversation lapses.  Keith doesn’t know what to say, and that’s nothing new.  He lets his eye wander over what he can see of Shiro. He looks mostly fine except for a scar across his nose.

“...Shiro, how long ago was the crash?”

Shiro jolts slightly, and his eyes flick over.

“They didn’t tell you that, either?”

Keith tries to wrack his memory, but it hurts, so he stops.  “Maybe. I wasn’t taking a lot in. I was mostly trying to escape for the first few hours.”

Shiro’s eyes flick back down.  “It’s... six. Six months.”

Keith swallows.  “So I’m... twenty-five?  Twenty-six? That’s fucking weird.”  Keith runs a hand through his hair. “You got hurt, didn’t you?”

“I... yeah.”  Shiro rubs at one cheek with his hand, the flesh one.  “But not as bad as you. It was...” He closes his eyes, and Keith watches him quietly, wanting to help somehow.  “I was there.”

“Sorry.  You don’t have to talk about it.”

“No,” Shiro says carefully.  “I... I’ll answer anything you like.”

Keith shrugs.  “I don’t really have any questions.  I just... are you okay now?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Keith relaxes a little.  “Okay. Okay, good. So, uh, this seems like a dumb question, but are we still on Garrison territory?  That hospital wasn’t the one in town. I think.”

Shiro tilts his head, and fuck, it’s cute.  “Garrison? They’re that military branch in Arizona, aren’t they?  What do they have to do with anything?”

“That’s, uh.  I live there? Lived.  Sometimes in the cities on either side, but mostly there.  That’s the last place I remember being.”

Shiro draws back.  “That’s... wow. You just have been... twenty?  That’s before I knew you. How old do you remember being?”

“Yeah.  Twenty. Only just, though.”  Shiro runs a finger down the condensation of his glass.  “I guess I never took you there.”

Shiro exhales.  “I didn’t meet you until you were about to turn twenty-one.”  He smiles crookedly. “You tried to get me to buy you alcohol.  I thought you were hitting on me because it was one of those awful places and they never carded.”

Keith leans his head back.  He met Shiro in a bar, and in a shit bar to boot.  He wonders if he sucked Shiro off in a trashy bathroom.

He wonders how much Shiro paid.

Keith snorts, hiding his internal struggle.  “Sounds about right.” He tucks some hair behind his ear, but it tumbles free again.  He needs to cut it. “Did you?”

Shiro smirks.  “No, I asked you how old you were and for an ID, and when you pressed, I told you I had a fiancé.”

Keith winces.  “Hah, sorry. Some guys don’t like to make the first move, you know?  You have to really make yourself available.”

“I think you just wanted free booze,” Shiro says wryly.  “But you looked hungry, so I bought you dinner.”

“Just dinner?  Did I steal your wallet?”

He just laughs.  “I was too wary for that.  I grew up in a huge city—Tokyo, actually.”

“Really?”  Keith perks up.  “I never left Arizona.  What’s Tokyo like?”

“Well, you’re in California now.  Tokyo is  _ packed. _   We went last year, actually.  You liked the food.”

Keith’s head snaps up.  “I’ve been to Japan?” He’s done things he’s never dreamed of, but he can’t even remember them.  “I like all food,” he admits, “but I can’t remember eating Japanese anything except instant noodles.”

“I’ll make you some,” Shiro says earnestly.  “I’ve been on leave for a while—I can stay with you for now.  They understand.”

“Oh.  Thanks.  That would be... yeah.  Uh. I thought you said you were okay?  You’re still on leave?”

Shiro wilts a little.  “Just... after everything, I couldn’t concentrate.”

For six months?  Keith doesn’t think that makes too much sense.  He doesn’t press, though.

“Sure.  I get it.”  A lie.

“Thai teas?”  Their waitress is back.

Shiro smiles up at her.  “Thank you.” He accepts them both, then holds one out to Keith.  He takes it, and on cue, his stomach rumbles. He hunches his shoulders in embarrassment.

“Thanks.  I’ve only been on solids for a week.  This might be, uh... dangerous.”

“What do you mean?”

“My stomach might not be too happy about the food, when it comes.”

“Oh.”  Shiro winces.  “Right. I’m sorry.  I should have thought about that.”

“It’s probably fine.  Uh.” He realizes suddenly that he won’t be able to run for the toilet if he needs to.

“Well, this is liquid, right?  So it should be good.”

“Let’s hope so.  First night with my husband and I don’t want to puke on your shoes.”

Shiro goes bright red, and Keith barely has time to wonder  _ why _ before Shiro’s next words make his head spin.

“I—we don’t have to—I’m not expecting—”

Keith’s face heats, too.  “That’s not—I didn’t mean like  _ that _ —”

“Oh.   _ Oh _ .  Right.  I’m—sorry.”

The food arrives then, rescuing them both.

Keith takes a deep breath and shudders it out, trying to shove his thoughts in a completely different direction than this discussion.  The food smells amazing. So much better than spaghetti in a can.

“This looks good.”

Shiro picks up his fork, and Keith notices with idle interest that it’s with his left hand.  Things that the old Keith would have known, but this one... doesn’t. “Wait until you try it.”

Keith lifts his spoon.

The first bite is heaven.

He’s halfway through the bowl in minutes.  He can’t remember the last time he tasted something this good, ate something with fresh vegetables, had a full fucking stomach...  He glances up to see Shiro watching him more often than eating, an expression that looks a little heartbroken on his face, but the the food is too good for Keith to spend any time to wonder.

It’s gone before he can stop himself.  You don’t wait around with food; you eat it as fast as possible before someone can take it.

Guiltily, he puts the bowl down.  Shiro is still eating—has barely taken a bite, in fact.  But instead of looking annoyed, he watches Keith with a fond smile.

And, instead of lecturing him, he pushes over his plate towards Keith.

“Try mine?  I think you’ll like it.  The seafood is always so fresh.”

Keith eyes it.  “...No, that’s your food.”

But Shiro just continues to nudge it.  “You get to try it for the first time again,” he sing-songs, then stabs at something white, circular, and squishy with his fork, offering it out.

Keith eyes him.  They might be husbands, and Shiro might be his go-to winch in and out of the car, but Keith doesn’t think he’s ready for romance.  The food, however, looks amazing.

He takes the thing off the fork instead.  Shiro looks a little startled, but Keith ignores it.

And god, is it good.

“Is this a fish?” he asks, licking oil off his fingers.

“Not exactly.  It’s a scallop.  Like the shellfish?”

“Oh.”  Keith would be pressed to name a shellfish.  Lobster, maybe? He likes the squishy little disks, though.  They taste intense.

He hasn’t said much, but his expression must tell Shiro plenty, because he grins and turns his plate so Keith can have better access.  “You want more?”

“You didn’t get to eat a lot, though...”

“I’ll order another.”

Keith can’t bring himself to say no out of politeness.  If this all goes to shit, he’s going to have to find a way back to Arizona and that will mean bare bones food for god knows how long.

“If you’re sure.”

“Positive.”

That’s all he needs to slide it over and immediately eat three.

Shiro just grins as he watches Keith eat.  Keith tries not to look too embarrassed as he waves down the waitress and orders another of the seafood thing, plus something called crab rangoon.

By the time he’s done, Keith is, too, and he spoons up the remaining sauce and leans back.  They ate here a lot? It seems impossible to just come here on a whim. Especially with the prices on the entrees—one of them had been thirty fucking bugs.  Plus tip?

“Guess you like Thai after all,” Shiro says with a wink.

“I really, really like Thai.”  Keith levels a serious look at Shiro, wondering when the fuck he’s going to wake up.  Especially with Shiro grinning at Keith like he’s the goddamn cutest thing in the world.

“We can come back as many times as you want.”

“Even tomorrow?”

“Even tomorrow.”

Keith considers, then nods.

At the very least, Shiro isn’t the kind of guy who gets annoyed by unreasonable requests.  Maybe this will be an okay life.

“So, are we close to the house?”

“A little under thirty minutes.  The best hospital was kind of far.”

“...They said I had insurance,” Keith says slowly.  “I don’t even know where you buy insurance.”

“We have an accountant for that,” Shiro says easily.  “Don’t worry about it.”

An accountant.  Keith doesn’t know where you get one of those, either.

“If you say so.”

Shiro glances over, smiling crookedly.  “Sorry. I guess an insurance company, probably.  My job’s isn’t very good, and you wanted better.”

“Guess that was a good idea.  I don’t think my dad had anything but work insurance and it really fucked me over.”

Shiro winces.  “I’m sorry about that.  But I do owe you for it.  After everything.”

Keith shakes his head.  “It’s whatever. You got me lunch, so we can call it even.”

Shiro snorts.  “Technically, lunch is on you,” he says delicately.

“Oh.”  Keith doesn’t want to imagine his bank account here.  He’s never seen one with more than a hundred dollars in it.  “Still.”

Shiro just shakes his head.  “Dessert?”

“Sure?”  Keith pauses.  “What’s Thai dessert like?”

“They have a mango and rice dish, mango pie, I think there’s a pumpkin custard...”

“What are you getting?”  Keith already wants to eat everything.

“Depends on what you want.”

“I mean...”  Keith mumbles, not wanting to admit it, but Shiro just laughs.

“Pick your top two.”

“Pumpkin and custard?” Keith asks hopefully, poking at his teacup.

Shiro waves at the waitress.  “One mango pie and one pumpkin custard, please.”

“None for you?” Keith asks, eyeing him.

“I figured we could share.

“Oh.”  Keith feels his face heat again.

Oh my god they’re romantic.  What the hell is Keith going to do?

“Are there any other questions you have?”

“Too many.  But... I don’t even know what to ask.  Do I have to go to work? What’s the date?  When do I get to ride again?”

“You don’t really have work.  I mean, you work, but you don’t have to go anywhere—you’re more independent.  You race, and do interviews, and stunts on your own.” Shiro looks away, expression clouding over.  “I might... wait a bit, before you do that.”

Keith longs for a bike between his thighs again.  In this unfamiliar dreamworld, the rumble of an engine would be grounding.  It would make him feel like he could go anywhere instead of staying trapped in a life that isn’t his.

But the look on Shiro’s face makes his heart hurt.  He can’t explain it.

“So... what should I be doing?”

“Focusing on recovery.  PT, I guess. We’ve got a lot to do at home.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying I’m doing nothing?”  Keith makes a face.

“You’ll be doing plenty!  We have Netflix, and all of the other streaming services—or, at least, I can get them started again—and things to read, and you can pick up your drawing again.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrow.  “I don’t draw.”

“You do,” Shiro says earnestly.  “You’ve gotten very good.”

Keith looks away sharply.  “I just—I need something  _ real. _   I need to do something that isn’t lying around and waiting to heal and stewing about what the fuck the world is now.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

“I don’t  _ know! _ ”  Keith’s palm hits the table and everything rattles.  People stop to look at them.

He retracts his hand slowly, too embarrassed to apologize, even when Shiro draws back, looking alarmed.

“I... right.  Just, I thought that the crowds might be too much right now.”

Keith’s eyes flick up.  “Crowds?”

“Your fans.  The press. They’re going to be... a nightmare, now that you’re awake.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone like that,” Keith says bluntly.

“Then I’ll keep you away from you.”

Keith finds himself blushing at the soft voice, at the idea of someone like Shiro protecting him.  He rubs his nose to cover it up. “Right,” he agrees.

Shiro nods.  “I’m sorry. I know it must be... a lot.  I know some of what you want through before... before we met.  It’s a big change.”

Keith stills.  “You do?”

Shiro nods solemnly.  “You told me some.”

“And you still married me, huh?”  All of this made less and less sense.  Why would a guy like  _ Shiro _ stick himself with someone like Keith?  Unless it was for the fame and money, but from what Keith understood, they’d married even before that...

“Wh—of course!  You’re my best friend!”

“And the press, they don’t care that I used to turn tricks?  We never had to go to couple’s therapy or whatever?” Keith leans on his palm.

Shiro goes still, his face falling, and Keith goes cold.

“You... I never told you that, huh?”

Shiro closes his mouth and shakes his head, not saying anything.

“Shit.”  He’s had this life for one day and already fucked it up.  The perfect life, handed to him, and he’s tanking it by just being honest about himself.”

“I probably wasn’t really proud of it,” he murmurs.  It feels like there’s another Keith out there, and that he’s sabotaging that guy’s life.

Shiro shakes his head again, taking a deep breath.  “No, no. I understand why you didn’t.” He smiles over at Keith, despite everything, but Keith can see a little hurt behind it all.  “I’m not angry. It’s in the past.”

Keith keeps quiet, hunching his shoulders.  He’s been taken into homes all his life, said something wrong, and been sent back.  Like returned mail. He hasn’t had to feel the uncertainty for a while now, since he’d been an adult for three years—no, more than that, now—but suddenly he can taste it again, ugly and metallic in the back of his throat.

But, for the other Keith’s sake, he feels like he should defend it.  At least a little.

“Just—no one asks for your high school grades before they give you money that way.”

Shiro closes his eyes, and Keith wonders if he’s fucked up  _ again. _   “You did it in  _ high school? _ ”

“What?  No—mostly.  Not really. Not until I dropped out properly.  It was just when I couldn’t find anything else.”

He always thought he didn’t care about what other people thought, but for some reason Shiro being upset about this, disgusted with him, makes his ribs ache.

Shiro nods slowly.  “That... that explains some things.  I’m sorry you had to do that.” He swallows.  “You won’t ever have to do that again, okay?”

So long as Shiro lets him stay.  So long as Keith doesn’t fuck this up.

For Shiro this is all years ago, but for Keith, it’s something he feels like he was doing last week.

“Sure.  Thanks.”

“I mean it,” Shiro says earnestly.  “Keith—hell, you know what?” He pulls out a phone, pockmarked and chewed up, and fiddles with it for a moment.  Then he slides it over. “Your phone. It survived the accident. Barely.”

Keith looks at Shiro hard, then finally at the phone.  It’s some sort of banking app.

It’s obscene.

“That’s... all of that?  It’s ours?” Keith has never seen so many zeroes in his life.

“That’s yours,” Shiro corrects.  “That’s the money from your endorsements last year.  We’ve got a lot more in investments and high-interest savings accounts—but that’s all you.”

“I don’t know what to say.  What the hell do we spend it on?”

“Cars, bikes, bills, charity, insurance.  Thai.” Shiro leaves the phone in Keith’s hand, and Keith switches the screen off hurriedly.  “The house is lovely. The groundskeeper keeps the yard beautiful.”

“Can we... get dessert to go?  I want to see it.” And Keith wants to get out of his seat and away from his stupid confession.

Shiro laughs a little.  “Yeah, of course.”

He stands and walks off, and Keith shifts awkwardly in his seat until he comes back with three boxes.  “Can you carry them?”

“Sure.”  Keith reaches for them.  He wants to see his new life before he manages to fuck it up any more.

Shiro puts Keith in the chair, and Keith lets himself be carried around before Shiro settles the to-go boxes in his lap.  A hundred dollar bill covers dinner, then a couple of twenties for the tip.

Shiro hadn’t been joking.  No wonder the waitress liked them.  When the car pulls out, he looks back at the restaurant fondly.

What if he starts to forget more things?  What if this day, a relatively nice one, one he kind of wants to hold onto forever if he can, just disappears?


End file.
